The Fog of Peace
by Turtler
Summary: A Federation operative is sent to Gallia on a mission that none have succeeded in in over a century of trying. In order to even begin walking the road to success, he must confront his past and the complexities of a country gone mad. Full summary inside.
1. Author's Notes

Disclaimer: I own nothing save some of the story and the OCs.

Notice: Alright, due to both the absolute lack of space for the summary and several unfortunate experiences I have suffered through on other sites, I'll be posting the full summary and warnings here. I must please ask that you read through the entire page before continuing on to the story itself, for it contains details on the tone this story shall take, and due to several complaints about the content and direction of other stories elsewhere (including complaints that I had violently disillusioned people with my stories after getting them hooked on them, in spite of my obligatory warning at the top to try and avoid such incidents), I feel obliged to try and avoid such unfortunate events by using up my first "chapter" for these warnings and other unfortunate data so that any who feel unpleased with this fact and who wish to leave without suffering through the agony of being so affected later on may do so, and indeed any who are rubbed the wrong way for any reason may opt out.

Please understand that this is for you, dear readers, rather than myself, and that I fully recognize I may get into trouble over this matter with administration. I accept that. Because you deserve to know what kind of story you are getting.

First and foremost, I am a strong defender of the Atlantic Federation. I am saying this now because I have heard a lot of controversy and gotten a LOT of flack over my position, but in the end I believe that history fully vindicates me even if the canon hasn't yet. Far too many, from what I have seen, can only stomach their conflicts in a pure and unstrained white and black setting, and if the slightest hint of grey seeps in they quickly write it all off as being purely an indiscriminate blob of grey with no good guys, no bad guys, no heroes, and no villains.

Frankly, I have always been rather fed up with such a simplistic world view, particularly since many of the same people tend to simultaneously ignore the realities of war and politics in doing so. In one of the supposedly purest of the pure wars, WWII (at least in the West), the Western Allies (for the sake of the argument by sidestepping the unreliable and ludicrously corrupt and tyrannical KMT and CCP and ESPECIALLY the USSR) committed (amongst other things):

Copious violations of neutrality, sometimes fairly benign and unharmful (like the mass espionage apparti operating in the Iberian, Latin America, etc and the all-but-bloodless occupation of Tibet during the war) and sometimes harmful to the extreme (for how else does one describe the deliberate attacks upon some neutral governments such as Persia and Vichy France, the latter leading to the deaths of a few dozen thousand French and Colonial troops that were only years ago ALLIES?).

Getting in bed with very nasty groups (Stalin is, of course, the obvious answer here, but less apparent are the Chinese factions- untrustworthy to the extreme, every bit as despotic as and vastly more corrupt than the USSR and its' satellites- and even Poland, Ethiopia, and Greece- at the start of the war unrepentant dictatorships of whom the former had even acted to back Hitler's dissection of Czechoslovakia and had in no small way handed Hitler ammunition to support his aggression with their genuinely poor dealings with their nation's ethnic minorities).

Abandoning their loyal allies to the untrustworthy USSR and its' allies (the "Western Betrayal" of Poland, Czechoslovakia, Eastern Germany, the Baltic States, Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary, Yugoslavia, the Chinese KMT to Mao, etc etc etc etc).

The willingness to employ WMD banned by international law (the Nuclear Bombs- believe it or not- do not count mainly due to the "No post facto convictions" issue and the fact that nukes were not regulated at the time, but the widespread use of incendiaries and largely indiscriminate area attacks as a whole do).

The willingness to wage total war against the peoples of their enemies- including civilians- without remorse.

This list is but a small taste, and were I to expand it out to WWI or (God Forbid) the Cold War, it would doubtless get even longer.

Naturally- to avoid a potential onrush of complaints- this potted list of events has been strained of context and slanted and thus cannot give the whole story and thus discount many factors (Poland, Ethiopia, and China were the first to be attacked by Germany, Italy, and Japan and aid to them was less a matter of approval of their regimes and more of a matter of survival by checking the expansion of the Axis Powers to be and honor by trying to avenge the failures of said attempted interventions; the only plausible way to avoid abandoning Eastern Europe or China was to take the exhausted and overstretched Western Allies and drive at the numerically superior Soviet and Maoist war machines and hope that they could be driven back; Vichy France and Persia were hardly perfect neutrals given the high percentage of German war material and men both used and the use of Vichy colonies- both only nominal such as defacto independent Syria and actual- as springboards for German forces in the region, etc etc etc etc), but in many ways that is the point: wars are hardly all conducted on fields of honor according to Chivalric rules (indeed, it never really has been), and instead on far murkier and bloodier and more ambiguous grounds in which even the good guys do not emerge unscathed.

However, this does not mean that all sides are equal or even close to it. Indeed, who here would care to place Chiang Kai-Shek- much less Hitler, Stalin, Mao, or the Japanese Junta- on the same platform as Roosevelt, Churchill, and De Gualle? And who indeed would truly proclaim WWI just a pointless war with no bad guys or good guys after looking at the records kept by the Central Powers- including blueprints for literal ethnic cleansing if not genocide- still around in Berlin, Paris, and Malta and compare them to the use of Q-Boats or the blockade? And if we truly care to muddle into the murkiest and ugliest waters to dredge up the blood of those long gone, who truly would compare or rank the Western Allies- as represented by NATO, SEATO, and a number of other affiliated organizations- on par with the Soviet Union, even considering several of the truly ugly things the former committed (does it match up to the GuLAG? Or to the systematic looking of the areas under the thrall of the USSR or its' allies such as Eastern Europe or even Central America?)?

This, of course, is not to whitewash the above offenses or to denigrate those harmed or killed in the above, for even if all books, films, and data period were rewritten to that effect with the purpose of expunging every last inch of guilt and any that remembered it, it would still be impossible to do so, for it is still written on the only record of history that truly matters: history itself. It is merely to showcase that even the best are highly imperfect and the politics of war and peace is no room for saints (indeed, it is no coincidence that one of the few times one has tried to play said game- the future Saint Louis of France- tried to play that game, he led his realm into a devastating defeat in an attempt to take the Levant and brought about not merely his own death but the death of the proto-French Empire).

Unfortunately, it is my sad experience with the rest of the Valkyria Chronicles fandom that it is disproportionately filled with such individuals that can only see the world as pure white/black or an indistinguishable Grey muddle. Perhaps I was merely on the wrong forums, and I certainly do not mean to imply that all fans are such minded individuals (or even that all of them are irrational or incapable of holding civil conversation, as I will be the first to attest many of them are excellent gentlemen and women fully capable of civilly but competitively discussing and arguing) , but there are enough of them that have made themselves big enough annoyances (including a few threats against personal life and property that I would prefer forgetting) that I feel obliged to write this out to minimize the potential backlash.

Warnings: This story will delve into darker territory than even most VC fan fictions, with the usual warnings for language and violence being upgraded (not to Saw levels, naturally, but people will suffer disfigurement and mutilation) and further warnings deserve to be added for disturbing political content (unsavory actions with unsavory parties will occur, racism, discrimination, sexual controversy- if not the act itself- etc will also feature) and dissing of fan favorites (not because I hate them- to the contrary in fact- but the MC here does not exactly share the opinions and biases of most fans or characters we have seen in the universe). If you yourself believe any of this might be too much, I must remind you that you are free to go elsewhere any time you desire.

I apologize if this seems heavy-handed, but my prior experiences have brought me to the conclusion that it is a necessary measure, and I beg of you to not blame me for the issues I brought up here (certainly, criticism is entirely welcome, as is complaints that I am drawing the plot or writing in a bad direction) as I gave fair warning and thus it is your decision to decide what to do.

Now that I have finished this, let me move on to the summary and additional notices.

Summary: Taking place at about the time of VC II, one of the Atlantic Federation's brightest and most seasoned soldiers is removed from his post during a moment of crisis in the ongoing war against the Empire and is dispatched to Gallia to fulfill a mission none have thus far succeeded in over the course of decades. In order to even attempt to do so, he must navigate the chaos of a nation tightly webbed with intrigue, conspiracy, treason, murder, ambition, and ideology that is on the verge of Civil War while confronting not merely old and new friends and enemies, but also his own past. In order to get anywhere near success, he will have to choose his allies carefully amongst the host of angels and demons all jockeying for position in the inferno, a task that is difficult enough in a fog of war where allegiances are unclear and change frequently without taking morality into account. Can he succeed without losing his soul? Can anyone succeed at all?

Further Notes: The aid of (a) Beta Reader(s) would be most appreciated, and any that are interested may simply PM me.

Thank you for your patient understanding, and I once again apologize for the length. However, now we may finally get onto the actual story itself!


	2. Prologue: A Fateful Meeting

Notes: Alright, here's the actual first chapter! Let's get this show on the road!

_Location Unknown, Europa, Date Unknown, 1937_

The car- from what I remembered of the parts of its' exterior that I saw in the dim light- was likely a heavily modified civilian luxury van, painted over in an improvised forest camouflage pattern with pieces of ghille tossed on and with a body that was clearly reinforced with heavier metals to improve its' ability to take damage and- as I noticed- with four mounted machine guns, one for each of the cardinal directions on the car, in addition to a few murder holes able to fit a rifle's muzzle through without undermining the structure of the car. Were it not for the discreet sign- painted in cooler, more muted colors than its' usual red so as to not compromise the camouflage to any potential enemy- displaying a heraldry officially outlawed in Gallia itself, it might have been mistaken as being the property of some overworried survivalist with more ammunition than money or sense.

The inside, however, was a vastly different story. While still colored in muted greens and green-browns like the rest of the car, it clearly displaced its' status as something of a luxury car, with the reinforced undercarriage covered up by a thick, luxurious rug (which I did not doubt for a second was real fur, doubtless from some endangered animal), and the seats themselves were very soft but sturdy leather covered in a similar, cushy fur on the head and armrests. It was quite pleasantly comfortable and were it not for the precariousness of my own situation and the pent up anxiety that had been steadily building since I had entered the country, I might have chosen to sprawl out and go to sleep.

As it was, however, I stayed bolt upright and alert, always keeping a constant lookout. There was no question that I was in a war zone and behind a bush could lie danger. And had I needed any more incentive to stay awake, that was readily provided by the men in front of me.

They were covered in some ornate, feudalistic armor- like the Empire's but even more so- covered in sheets of metal that wrapped around their arms, with only the more natural lower chest and feet conceded to the flexibility afforded by light uniform clothing. Their uniforms themselves matched the car in shade (roughly), but with a more yellowed front piece atop their… do you really call them helmets? They were three in number, all sitting across from by back seat, their weapons (which I could not place, but the flankers had rifles and the middle one had an SMG) at the ready, their hands gripped on their weapons too tightly by a half, and from their face-concealing masks their eyes constantly darted around, almost as though expecting a sudden attack to appear from behind or for me to suddenly go mad and start trying to shoot them.

To be honest, the thought was almost tempting given my knowledge of exactly who and what they represented, supported, and carried the banner for, but right now I could scarcely afford it. As nice as it would feel to eliminate a few bigoted, undisciplined goons in uniforms, it would not be worth it. Not with the sort of stakes that were being played with tonight. My mission was not to kill, but to talk, convince, beg, and bargain. But the risks involved were higher than on many missions where I had indeed been tasked to shed blood.

As soon as I got in and closed the door, the car and veered off out of the clearing, driving deeper and deeper into the woods, where even the dim moonlight of the clearing was starting to be blotted out by the tangles of trees. I tried to look around outside, but all I saw was an indistinct blur of foliage and animals passing by. The car hit a few bumps- not all of them I believed were natural- but it held up to the challenge quite well and provided a remarkably smooth ride, which was quite fortunate as none of us were wearing seatbelts. Apparently they had also learned the risks of wearing them when in enemy territory, as they were pains to try and get out of when one was under fire. That or they were just careless.

My thoughts were rudely interrupted when I felt the car start to slow, and I soon knew the reason why, as an intense light far in excess of anything I had that night soon flashed in my eyes, forcing them closed for a few seconds. The driver came to a sudden stop, doubtless also rather dazed by the lights though he certainly recovered very well. I leaned over to look out the front of the tinted windows and I could see a few figures with flashlights attached to their rifles not unlike how one would do so with a bayonet. The light prevented him from seeing them clearly, but he could tell they were moving towards the sides of the car. The one moving to the (from my perspective) right side then opened the door closest to me and gestured for me to step out. I briefly turned to the other three sitting across from me and gave them a slight nod of the head to bid them adieu before stepping out of the car, at which I turned to face the man that opened the door.

"Thank you, sir."

He showed little reaction that I could notice, which was not surprising given the dim light exacerbated by the strain my eyes suffered from moving from the well-lit car back out into the forest. I closed my eyes and counted to twenty to try and get them to adjust, cursing my lack of nightfighting equipment. If any Imperial agents or other hostiles caught me out here like this, I would be lucky to notice them in time to avoid their first attacks and cheat death. While my eyes were enclosed in a darkness of their own choice, I heard the car peal away and drive back out somewhere into the mass of seemingly endless forest and the boots of the man that had been on the other side of the car trod out to meet us. When I opened my eyes again, he was to my left like the other guard. The one closer to me gave a half-turn and gestured me into the middle of them. Apparently they wanted to walk in the middle of them.

I grudgingly obliged. While I would have far preferred to keep the both of them in my sights at all times, there was no use needlessly antagonizing them. I doubted their lord had ordered them to capture or eliminate me- he feared the inevitable retribution too much at this stage- and if any enemy approached our small group from the front or rear, they would hopefully see and eliminate my escorts first, thus hopefully giving me time enough to react. As I stepped into the center of them, the lead man began walking, and I followed close behind, with the man to my back bringing up the rear. It was only on this trek that I came to appreciate the complexity and the treachery of the Kloden Wildwoods and especially Grand Duke Victor Forest. I tried to catalog our movements and a landmarks- to the right about three Idonian feet after the large, scarred Fir tree, to the left through the clearing, etc- but it was almost entirely hopeless to map out our route. I believed my guides were taking me on a roundabout route, doubling back on themselves and occasionally going off on long shortcuts to keep me in the dark, but I could not prove it. And if keeping track of our movements was a losing fight, trying to keep my geographical direction was all but impossible. Had I been able to stop or look up at the sky at the cosmos in the few places of this forest that God granted one the opportunity to do so, I probably would have been able to puzzle out an idea of where we were. But my escorts were moving at a truly ferocious pace, like a forced march, and in order to stay on track and avoid possible retribution I kept my eyes away from the skies and firmly on the back of the man leading myself and the rearguard. I gave a brief thought that that was probably intentional on the part of my planned "date" for the night, as he doubtless did not want to risk any word about this base reaching outside ears. And however distasteful he might be, I could not fault him on that much, particularly in this climate.

My internal clock- of questionable quality- registered that we had been doing this for nearly an hour when suddenly the main guard turned into what appeared to be a solid rock wall and gave a five sharp knocks and a kick to a particular section of it. Then, to my shock- if not exactly surprise- a tiny piece of the supposed rock section at face height moved out of the way and light poured out, blinding me for a few seconds until I readjusted my vision. It was then, on either side, I noticed a few tiny outcroppings in the 'rock' that I had overlooked, and noticed that out of them were sticking several tubes hastily covered with foliage. Murder holes through which the defender could fire at any outside. In these conditions without night fighting equipment, they could easy destroy a sizable body of troops without them even having a chance to get their bearings, particularly if more than half of said barrels belonged to MGs.

I did not have time to long ponder this, as soon with an almost sanitized clunk, a part of the 'rock' edifice seemed to sink into itself and then moved to the side, revealing a man-sized opening through which inordinate amounts of light passed out through, illuminating the wildness behind and playing havoc with my vision for a few seconds. The leader quickly stepped through, and I followed.

The contrast between the outside and the inside could scarcely be greater, as everything was illuminating as though coated in Ragnite. The ceiling above was decorated with a few chandeliers- though I was quick to note there were no crystals in them real or otherwise, probably for the best given the circumstances- , the floor beneath our feet was made out of cheap and durable material rather than expensive ones but still clearly sculpted and set to the greatest possible taste, and the room itself was massive and long. As my escorts and myself walked through the opening, we were greeted with thick lines of guards- these ones not in forest uniforms but still with some bits of ghille thrown about to try and offset their sparkling and bright yellow uniforms- railroading our path towards the rear of the building. It did not take me long to realize that every single one of them was constantly moving their weapons to point at me at all times, and their expressions- even with all but their eyes covered up by the metal helmets they wore- were clear: distrust. I was not welcome here.

I ignored them the best I could while looking around, but even then my escorts hurried me along towards the rear, where I recognized a fork was. They led me down the left, towards some stairs, which I dutifully walked down. Below, the quarters were somewhat sparser than the "entrance" above, but still quite luxurious and easily quite larger, with equally spacious rooms- one could probably fit several tanks or artillery pieces in the hallway itself- and an imposingly high ceiling. To build this much underground- as we must be if I was still competent enough to tell when I was at ground level from where we had entered- would have cost an immense sum indeed, much less to furnish it so lavishly, and even I was somewhat surprised at the largesse involved. I had not expected anything small, to be sure, but even I hadn't expected this much. However, I kept my face impassive. Because to fail to do so would to be to allow the architecture one of its' clear objectives: to awe and intimidate. One did not build things such as this to hide them away, at least not completely. If one desired to do that one would have used drab but sturdier concrete, steel, or heavily depleted "slag" ragnite. This…. this was made to demonstrate, to flaunt, to make a point of the planner's power.

I could not let that get to me. I had a mission and I would not allow myself to be swayed or dazed in the least.

From the staircase we walked down yet another hall, seeming to connect at least a large segment of the base to itself and the surface. As I walked past, I saw people dining in what must have been mess halls- both enlisted and officers (or in this case, nobility)-, weaponry stacked in what were clearly some armories, and even what appeared to be a warplane cloistered off in one section. Clearly an impressive establishment indeed.

It was at the end of this, however, lay another door. Though 'door' might have been the wrong word, as it looked more like a colossal vault than anything else. And true to form, there were yet more guards. However, they had apparently been told we were coming, and so they wasted little time in using strange levels on the sides of the vault door to squeeze it open. Myself and my entourage did not walk more than two feet inside before we were greeted with the mechanical clicks of dozens of men pointing weapons at us. As I examined them more closely, I saw they were not in the same uniforms as the others, but instead had more golden uniforms than the others, with the sign I had identified on the car imprinted on the forehead of their helmet- this time not in muted browns and greens, but in stark blood red and crisp white- with a similar one acting stuck like a pendant on their chests. Probably the elite guards.

Soon, one of them- likely an officer, though first glance at their uniforms did not betray any surface difference- dismissed my escorts with a quick nod of his head, at which they did a neat about face and walked out of the "vault", which closed behind them. They then came in and surrounded me, with the suspected officer lying down a small security box on a table near a detector- not unlike those in airports after the nearly successful attempt to bomb Randgriz National Airport – and gestured for me. I assumed he wanted me to discard my weapons, and so I walked over and started to place them on the table

. First went my first pair of pistols, then my second. Next camemy survival knife, then my combat knife, then my saber, then my sets of grenades, then my rifle, then my rifle grenades. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the officer look at me almost as though in shock or exasperated disbelief, a reaction that pleased me a fair amount but did not make its' way into my features.

I finally finished off by removing the bits of metal and ragnite that could not (normally) be used for violence: my soft officer's hat with its' metallic lining and gold rank insignia, then my epaulettes, and my steel-bodied boots. At this, I gave a nod and the officer gestured to some of his men, at which point they roughly grabbed me and began to search. They found nothing suspicious though they did considerably throw my uniform into disarray, and so I took the time to fix it. Soon after the search, the officer nodded his head and gestured towards the detector. I bowed my head and walked in sideways to fit throw, and fortunately it remained silent. At this point, the officer nodded and gestured for escorts for me on my last leg through. I, however, locked eyes with him and broke the oppressive silence that had dominated from the time I had walked into the woods.

"The agreement was for me to take all of my possessions in with me for the meeting."

The expression of the officer darkened slightly but noticeably and he was quick to respond in a rather haughty manner.

"And who, may I ask, gave you such authority to make a demand?"

I almost would have smirked as I laid out my trump card were it not for my precarious situation.

"Your Liege Lord, that is who. You are quite welcome to call him up if you so desire to confirm the arrangement" He notably paled with the first three words- even with the only indications being the eye openings- and was notably thrown off his ease with the final sentence as I pointed to a small opening in the wall that I assumed was an armored box that held the phone.

He made his way to a different but nearly identical opening, drew up the small shield, and took out the phone. A few seconds passed with his ear to the received before he began.

"I must apologize for the inconvenience, my Liege, but the ambassador you were expecting has arrived and claims an agreement allowing him to bring the personal effects we confiscated into the meeting."

I could not hear the response, but the posture of the officer slightly but noticeably drooped during the time I presumed the man on the other end was responding, and steadily did so until he responded.

"If such is your desire, than very well my Liege. My apologies for the bother."

He waited, during which I assumed he was receiving some final words, and then hung up and turned to me, his eyes now like those of a mangy cat that was fleeing with its' tail between its' legs after a solid walloping. He turned to his men and nodded, after which they handed back the box containing my effects, which I wasted no time putting back in their proper places. Once finished I looked up at the officer, and he signaled for a few of the men to accompany me, this time almost completely encircling me.

We walked down the exceedingly long corridor, past doors that were steadily locked and guarded with their own squad and MG post. Most likely munitions, food, and quarters for family, friends, and subordinates. Though knowing whom I was meeting, it was likely that the last three were largely interchangeable.

Finally, however, we reached the end of that corridor to another door, easily the most guarded of them all. They too, appeared to have been notified, and so opened to door, after which myself and my escorts went through.

Inside was perhaps the most luxurious room in the complex. A great, thick, luxurious rug lying underfoot. Polished walls clearly made of top-shelf material. Depleted, "shiny" Ragnite acting as crown molding for the wooded desk, chairs, and others. Around the outline of the room lay yet more guards, dressed even more fancily than those before: the brightest hues I had seen for uniforms outside of the parade ground if ever, the red imprint on their helmets and the chest pendant now joined by armbands on both arms of the same color, and obsessively polished rifles. However, dominating the room was what was directly across from the door I had entered, with a fine wooden desk- probably hand crafted from the choice trees in this very forest or one of the Empire's finer ones- embedded with depleted ragnite and other materials like gems, complemented by a chair made of similar materials whose back- which was likewise emblazoned with the heraldic symbols I had encountered throughout the night- turned to me, looking at a blazing fireplace the appeared to be made of depleted ragnite still capable of glowing. Over the fireplace lay two large flags- usually ones you would use to designate command posts from afar or to naval ships miles away- with the same blood red and crisp white with their staffs embedded into the walls crossing over each other as though they were opposing swords.

Truly, my contact did have an inflated sense of his own importance. Every single step I had taken since I entered the car was meant to intimidate, awe, and attempt to impress upon me the power of the man I was assigned to meet with. This room in and of itself almost looked like it belonged in a parody of one of the wartime espionage movies for the supervillain's lair.

But this was no joke, and the supervillain I was meeting with was no invention of an actor on the screen, but flesh and blood.

From the chair, I heard a deathly familiar voice- broadcast on several radios and televisions across the global continent- speak.

"Stand down."

All of a sudden, my second group of escorts left, filling out of the door, leaving me in the midst of this room. The chair then swiveled like I knew it, would revealing the figure of the man sitting in it, the combination of the scarlet dress uniform, the saber, and the iconic black mustache and sunglasses leaving no ambiguity as to the man's identity.

Count Gilbert Gassenari. Comte de Gassenari. Duke of Illford, Bruhl, and Mellvere. Protector of the River Mais and Eastern Diebal mountains, and Royal Caretaker of the Kloden Wildwood, as well as countless other noble- no, Aristocratic, which was different from noble (as the Empire had been wont to remind everybody with every crime they committed), I mentally reminded myself- in addition to much else. Pretender to the Gallian throne. Bigot. Racist. Mass Murderer. Usurper. Tyrant. Despot. Absolutist. A man who was almost certainly better off dead.

I let not a single bit of my emotions make it to my features. I left no outward indication of my utter contempt for the man sitting in front of me. Negotiations would be hard enough.

Because my job was to sit down with this man unworthy of being called a man… this _monster_… and bargain with him.

But before I did, I cursed the House of Randgriz, the Empire, the Gallian people, the GRA, and Townshend and thought back on the string of events that now forced me to cut a deal with a devil to try and preserve Europan freedom.

Well, that's done! Anyway, any possible feedback whatsoever (and I mean ANY feedback, as beggars cannot be choosers) and perhaps any would-be-betas are entirely welcome to apply! Reviews are highly encouraged…. Nay, MANDATORY!

And I am sorry again for the overlong Author's Notes page, but after my past experiences I judged it better safe than sorry.


End file.
